


Advent Calendar 4

by ecrituredudesir



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Genre: Bondage, Embarrassment, Humiliation, Other, Political Drama, Restraints, Tickle torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 17:13:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21871921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ecrituredudesir/pseuds/ecrituredudesir
Summary: Advent Calendar slot 4Tickle Torture / HumiliationA commission for someone on Furaffinity.
Kudos: 4





	Advent Calendar 4

It wasn’t uncommon for younger heirs to visit their neighboring kingdoms to observe the efforts and diplomacy of their rulers. It had been no exception when the Princess Myrcella paid patronage to the Eastern Kingdom, calling on their King Bertrand to host her for a fortnight. Though Bertrand wasn’t particularly thrilled to have guests from what he had long considered to be a somewhat inferior kingdom—at least, since the ascension of Myrcella’s father, who offered him far too little entertainment on the front of wars and actual rivalry—he had obliged for presentation none the less.   
  
Truth be told, that didn’t stop him from having ulterior motives. Though the princess was infamously sweet, and naive to a point of almost second hand embarrassment for the ancient king, he knew potential when he saw it. While he could have simply kidnapped her.. well, a straightforward war wouldn’t give him the challenge that he sought out.   
  
Though his initial probe into finding any clever cruelty she might have hidden up her sleeve had failed, that didn’t stop him from having a back up plan. He _always_ had a back up plan. This one just happened to involve a small group of his best, yet… least intelligent men to collect her in a hasty kidnap from the room he’d allotted her already. They were stupid, but they were loyal, and no one would dare say anything in regards to what he had them do in bringing her down to the dungeons. So far she had been treated very well, so the sudden bag over her head and the force of which she was dragged down into the dungeon came as a shock to her, with her squeals of protest and pleas for help falling muffled with how tightly they’d wrapped a gag on the outside of the bag.   
  
It took them only a few precious minutes to get her down, where they removed the bag from her head and proceeded to pin her down against the table at the center of the room. Her struggles were evident still, and the Buneary princess was trying to throw every kick and punch she could to get free while a Miltank in nearly full latex moved around the table she was being held down onto. Her two arms were stretched up to either side of her head, while her legs were kept together, and a metal cuff was attached to each wrist and ankle to restrain her properly. It pulled her body into the shape of a Y on the table, at which point the thugs finally seemed to let her go, making themselves scarce as their King stepped into the room.   
  
Princess Myrcella’s eyes widened at the sight of him, her breath hitching. “You would dare? This is an act of war to hold me captive in such a way,” she stumbled, trying to make sure that she kept some semblance of pride and presentation, despite the fear that was beginning to creep into her tone. Bertrand regarded her with some sense of disinterest; she had not yet become a rival worthy of much of his attention, and she wouldn’t until she was older and properly embarrassed over this situation.   
  
“Hardly. You see, I’ve simply found your motivations… lacking since your arrival. You act too cowed, like your diplomatic father,” he announced, his eyes narrowing as he silenced her next attempt at a protest for the insult to the other king. “I have gone for far too long without a real rival. Your great-grandmother once offered me such a challenge, but I have been long lacking in anyone to give me such entertainment.”   
  
“What?” Myrcella asked, truly struggling to comprehend his reasoning.

  
“I will simplify it; you are going to be tormented and humiliated here. I will remember your weakness, and of course… you wouldn’t want your father to find out about this later, would you?” He mocked, and she realized immediately he was right. She would be far too embarrassed to tell her father of this situation, but before she could actually answer the theoretical question, Bertrand gestured to have the Miltank move forward. “Helgr, begin. You’ll know when to stop.” Essentially, he was giving her free reign.   
  
The Miltank smirked maliciously, and she closed the distance between herself and the table once more before moving her fingers up along the Buneary princess’s side. Her night gown, soft, frilly, and painfully thin, offered her no sort of protection from the wry way that Helgr’s fingers worked along her slender sides. Immediately, the overwhelming force of laughter worked its way from Myrcella’s lips, her jaw dropping with the peals of loud, raucous laughter. Her squeals bounced off of the walls of the dungeon, making the sound echo sharply as she fought for some semblance of control, though no mercy seemed to come. Helgr’s fingers simply roamed sharply up from where she had started at her sides, moving steadily up to her armpits and then shifting whenever it seemed that Myrcella might he able to get too used to the sensation in one spot or another. Myrcella’s words and any protest she might have been able to form from the same sort of diplomacy she’d inherited from her father were lost in the heat of the moment, her back arching up from the table as her slender frame flailed in struggling retaliation.   
  
“Noooo- Bertrand you monst-hahaha!!” She cried out, tears welling in her eyes despite the laughter that shook through her still. She was struggling to breathe very quickly, the laughter leaving her lightheaded and helpless as Helgr worked at exploring her weakest points. It was unfortunately very obvious that no matter where Helgr’s fingers roamed, Myrcella was unbearably tickles and completely vulnerable to the stretch of Helgr’s expertise. Though she specialized in all manners of torture, the ones where she could get creative with where she turned her efforts and what she used were her favorite kinds.   
  
Her hands shifted upwards, roaming across the soft belly just under the Princess’s nightgown, finding the way the muscles under it twitched and tensed from the same ticklish ministrations as her sides had, though that only encouraged her to want to explore just where else might draw such a stark, powerful reaction. Myrcella’s head rolled backwards, the tears from her eyes now clearly making the soft fur of her cheeks wet as she shook and rolled her head, desperate to try and somehow convey her protests as the torment continued to make laughter wrack through her delicate body, her laughs occasionally slipping into desperate wheezes as she struggled to breathe.   
  
Her only reprieve came when Helgr paused—but it was only to return with a feather duster, brushing the thick bushel of feathers along the undersides of her exposed arms, taking special attention to the way that tickling her armpits made her squeal even louder. The fingers had been bad enough, the soft brush of feathers was nightmarish in trying to defend herself. “No nonno- Eeeee-!” She cried aloud, jerking hard at the cuffs keeping her pinned to the table as Helgr swapped passively between her armpits, while giving the vulnerable princess a solid look over. She had always wanted to torment one of the privileged elite of another nation, and it was as is Bertrand had given her a gift in this experience. Only when her armpits were twitchy and tense did Helgr move on, brushing the duster across the pinks of her ears next, making both of them flop desperately and twitch as she snorted and giggled away, squeaking from that particular treatment as she tried to fold both ears flat.   
  
Helgr constantly stayed on the move, though. Wasting too much time in one spot would allow Myrcella to get too used to one particular location, and keeping her moving was the best way to keep her body the most vulnerable. The feather duster gradually began to move back down from her ears, taking a precious pit stop at the curve of her neck, where the princess tried to twist and curl her head against her arms to hide her soft, bare throat. Her squeaks interrupted her words of protest now, swallowing hard as the feathers flickered against her neck, making her flinch down like a turtle trying to return back into its shell with no luck. “Ahh- s-stop!! Pfffff, haha-!”   
  
Her pleads fell on deaf ears, though the feather duster was still moving on, this time crawling its way back over her armpits again, before it gradually started to make the journey up the underside of her arms and towards her hands. Her wrists twitched as the feathers passed over them, but the target was her palms, which found just as much vulnerability as the rest of her had born. They were tickled until she was crying out in laughter once more, her fingers curling and trying to protect her palms from the attack—but every time she started laughing to hard, her grip against her palm went flat, and allowed Helgr access to brush the duster over each one once more, given the perfect position to swap between the two with how Myrcella had been restrained.   
  
There was one last, pressing place that Helgr had a feeling would truly break the princess, though. Her eyes shone with delight as she dragged the feather duster down the princess’s body, paying a brief attention to the back of where her knees were still able to lift up a bit on the table, before she reached deep into the feather duster to pluck two feathers from its base. As Myrcella watched her do this, the princess nearly went pale.   
  
“Not there,” she rasped quietly, still too breathless from how hard she had been tickled so far to offer much protest otherwise. Helgr ignored her, not caring whether it was a plea or a demand, but she was having too much fun with the stolen little princess to stop now. If Myrcella had thought the feather duster had been bad as a collection together, the light, barely-there brushes of a single feather on the sole of each foot was a thousand times worse. Immediately her laughter hitched to the loudest point it had been so far, her eyes so wide that it was hard to tell if she was actually seeing anything or if her eyes had simply gone vacant in the shock of having the feathers teased and toyed with across the bottom of her feet. It was her most ticklish spot, easily noticeable in that within only a few, precious seconds, her laughter had faded from tormented to hysterical. There was no room to plead for mercy or demand it, just as there was no room for her to even breathe for more than a few, painful gasps every time the feathers reached the bottom of her foot. Her toes wriggled, her chest heaved with laughter, and Helgr’s smirk only broadened across her face.  
  
Myrcella was shaking hard as her laughter pitched, and Helgr pushed her on for what felt like hours packed into the span of a few minutes; by the time the Miltank was done, the Buneary could barely breathe, the air slipping past her lungs with a pathetic wheeze as she had been tickled almost to the point where she’d lost consciousness. At one point, she even continued giggling even after the tickling had stopped, the tingling of her nerves lasting too long for her to register the pause. It was only at this point did Helgr dismiss her, thoroughly satisfied in how weak Myrcella had been left. It was the same, thuggish goons that had brought her down to the dungeons that entered again to collect her; her torment had left her far too weak to walk at that point, and they had no ceremony or respect when they dumped her back on her guest bed that night to leave.  
  
Though exhausted, the cogs were already turning in her mind. If Bertrand wanted a competition, he would find one-- she was too young to retaliate yet, but Myrcella was already plotting at how she could get her revenge without giving him the war he sought. She just couldn’t decide if it was for the embarrassment of it happening, or the embarrassment about subtly enjoying it so much...


End file.
